


Interdepartmental Memo

by silverlining99



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M, Mirror Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-25
Updated: 2010-05-25
Packaged: 2017-10-29 07:34:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverlining99/pseuds/silverlining99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One hallmark of an effective captain is knowing how to get his point across.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interdepartmental Memo

The first thing Kirk says to Christine, and he says it with a flicker of annoyance in those icy eyes, is "where the fuck is McCoy?"

The line he's laid down in front of her is a precarious one to tread. There's not a person on the ship who doesn't know the quickest way out from under Kirk's sights is the direct, succinct and unabashed shifting of his attention onto someone else.

Then again, there's not a single member of the medical staff who doesn't know that throwing McCoy under the proverbial bus is a fast route to nasty consequences.

She swallows back the terror clogging her throat, but can't quite control the tremor in her hand as she holds out the weekly health stats report. "Doctor McCoy," she says carefully, "is otherwise occupied. He didn't want to keep you waiting, though --"

"But he is," Kirk says flatly. "I was waiting for him. His absence means I'm _still_ waiting. Do you see the problem here, Chapel?"

"I." She steels herself. "I was only told you were waiting for this report, sir. I'd be happy to let Doctor McCoy know that you would like to see him personally."

If anything, Kirk's gaze goes even cooler. "I'm more than capable of relaying my own messages." He finally reaches to grab the PADD from her still-shaking hand. "What's he doing?" he throws out casually, perusing the data it contains.

Christine has to bite down the urge to inform him that the CMO is currently hiding in his office like a pathetic little boy, avoiding whatever punishment everyone knows is hanging over his head. "I'm sorry, sir?" she tries, stalling for time to just -- just _think_ her way through this.

Damn McCoy, anyway. She'd happily tear the man's heart out with her fingers alone if M'Benga weren't a hundred times worse.

Kirk looks at her sharply. "Was it a difficult question? What. Is. He. Doing?"

Christine draws her shoulders back and fixes her eyes on a point over the top of his head. She is stiflingly aware that everyone's attention is on her, though they all do admirable jobs of pretending to be working. "I'm afraid I don't know. _Sir_."

"Hmm. Well, I can't argue with that," he says easily, thoughtfully.

Her heart sinks. Kirk's mind is an asset to the Empire, to be sure, and she herself is almost certainly alive a dozen times over solely because of his ability to strategize in battle. In quieter times -- quiet, boring, _restless_ times?

It's nothing she wants focused on her. "Yes, sir," she agrees, for lack of anything else. "Permission to leave the bridge, sir."

"Of course," he says solicitously.

Relief floods her stomach so suddenly that she feels almost sick from it. She turns to make good on her escape, but his hand flashes out and catches her wrist. "Just as soon as I'm done," he adds. He pulls on her arm slightly for leverage as he gets to his feet. "Turn around."

She does as ordered, instinct more than anything else. Kirk's... proclivities are well-known, and just as well-known is that fighting them is often the last mistake a person ever makes. He presses against her back and walks her, hand splayed over her belly, forward towards the center of the helm stations. "Down," he says sharply. Cringing, she leans forward and braces her hands against the top edge of the center console. Kirk's body follows closely, crowding her down.

"Like I said," he murmurs, his breath gusting against the back of her ear, "I know exactly how to send my own messages to the good doctor."

Christine stares blindly at the screen below her as Kirk's palms slide down the fronts of her thighs and grip her flesh roughly to force her to widen her stance. "First message," he goes on, his voice louder, conversational. "Doctor McCoy should be aware that when I assign a specific task to a _specific_ member of my crew, I expect it to be carried out accordingly, as assigned."

There is nothing but detached efficiency in the way he lifts her skirt over her ass and traces his fingers under the waistband of her panties before shoving them roughly down her hips. The elastic scrapes along her skin and bites in, a thin line of sharp pressure. "Second message!" Kirk continues cheerfully. He pushes his hand into the space between her legs, pushes two fingers inside her without hesitation. "I don't care if he's got his own fucking daughter bleeding out in front of him, if I tell him to report to the bridge he is to report. To. The. Bridge." His fingers, calloused and rough, burn as they pump in and out of her. "You getting all this, Chapel?"

She grits her teeth for a moment. She is not going to cry; she is not going to give him that. "Yes, sir," she bites out. "Do as he's told. Come when summoned. Will there be anything else?"

Kirk laughs quietly. As chilling and dangerous as the sound is, she finds herself wishing he hadn't cut it short just in time for her to hear the slow drag of his zipper. "Plenty," he assures her. With the heel of one hand planted between her shoulders, he tugs at her hip with the other, silently ordering her to shift her feet back, to stick her ass further out. "Let's see, third message..."

She gets the briefest of warnings as his cock prods against her, and then he pushes deep with one forceful thrust. The flare of dry pain is too much, too sudden, and she can't keep from crying out. When he speaks again his voice has gone low and rough, and the cadence of his words falls into sync with the long, steady strokes he takes.

"Third message," he says again. He leans against her back, tucks his chin against her shoulder, covers her hands with his. "The third message is that there is _nothing_ I can't take away from him if I want to."

Christine closes her eyes and hates McCoy all over again for ever taking notice of her. Kirk settles into fucking her intently, each hard plunge of his cock another mark of punctuation to his implied threat. He grunts next to her ear, rough noises that she thinks, with a blazing fury, reveal him as the animal he is. He doesn't touch her, doesn't make the slightest move to make this anything other than an unrelenting _using_ of her.

She is the means to his ends. She bows her head and just prays it ends soon.

It doesn't. Her arms grow tired and ache from the effort of holding herself up, and when Kirk moves to stand upright she gives in, slumps down and extends her elbows to the sides to catch on the edges of the helm consoles. The muscles in her chest protest at the stretch, but it's at least a different sort of pain. Kirk's fingers dig bruisingly into her waist and he quickens his pace in a way that gives her hope, but then eases back into a steadier tempo.

There's a not-small part of her that considers grabbing for the blade resting at Sulu's hip and taking her chances on being able to drive it deep into Kirk's side before he can get the best of her.

See how _he_ likes being impaled in front of the entire bridge crew.

In the end she doesn't have the nerve. She never, ever has the nerve. She takes what he doles out with the same silent acquiescence she always gives McCoy, and keeps her fantasies of violence and revenge safe inside her head, where they won't get her hurt.

Or worse. Sometimes it feels a near thing, but she'd still rather have her life on this damn ship than no life at all. So she submits.

She endures.

Kirk grows bored, at last. His thrusts seem almost perfunctory and she nearly laughs aloud when he snaps, sharply, for Chekov to pay attention to their course heading. Anything resembling mirth disappears quickly, though, when he sinks his fingers into her hair and jerks her up into a sharp backward arch. He slaps into her with short, sharp jabs for several minutes before coming with a long groan. His hips rock and twist, grinding him close against her ass as his cock pulses out his release.

Christine thinks some more about killing him.

He withdraws and leaves her be as quickly and unceremoniously as he entered her in the first place. She is not stupid enough to move before he grants permission. "You remember everything you're to pass along?" he asks in a bored tone, from behind her.

She feels his semen leaking from her. "Yes," she says as steadily as she can. "Sir."

"Turn around, Chapel, I'm done dealing with your ass." Christine grimaces at her renewed flare of rage and slowly straightens. She eases her underwear back into place and smooths her skirt down before turning to face Kirk. "Well? Report. Gotta make sure nothing gets lost in translation."

The smug, sated look on his face makes her sick. "I believe," she says tightly, "it boils down to you owning him, sir. No matter if he chooses to pretend otherwise."

"Well put." Kirk grins lazily. "Dismissed, then. Oh, and Chapel?" His smile goes shark-like and she wonders if maybe she was wrong. Maybe there are worse things than being dead.

"I'd like you to deliver the stat report until further notice."


End file.
